His Crimson Rose
by origamikungfu
Summary: Though lovely, every rose has its thorns. Alan and Edith return to America in hopes of a fresh start, while Allerdale Hall sits (mostly) vacant for the first time in decades with only the wind rushing through its ramshackle walls. Yet, even for ghosts, there is life-both bitter and sweet-after Crimson Peak.
1. The Return

**_His Crimson Rose_**

Disclaimer: I do not own _Crimson Peak_ nor any of Guillermo del Toro's wonderful characters. However I do claim all the original ideas shared within this fic. _  
_

:::

 **Synopsis: Though lovely, every rose has its thorns. Alan and Edith return to America in hopes of a fresh start, while Allerdale Hall sits (mostly) vacant for the first time in decades with only the wind rushing through its ramshackle walls. Yet, even for ghosts, there is life-both bitter and sweet-after Crimson Peak.**

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The sky had been grey every day since their return from England. And every day Edith Cushing had spent by the side of Dr. Alan McMichael in his hospital room at Bellevue Hospital Center in New York City. At first he mainly slept most days, and she would sit and knit or embroider, for she herself had barely the wherewithal to do much else at the time.

Edith had mostly recovered from the poison that had been circulating in her system by that time, except the occasional bout of chills or dizziness that still snuck up on her from time to time. She had almost been too frightened to imbibe the antidote that the medics had first administered to her in London, but thank heavens not all rationality had deserted her, and at last she forced herself to take the proper doses each day. However, unable stand being in the country where the last of her innocence had been stripped from her and where she had first looked into the pit of true madness and corruption the world had to offer, she insisted that she and Alan depart for America as soon as possible.

The medical staff assigned to Dr. McMichael did their very best to dissuade her, warning in the most graphic of ways of how likely it was that he would succumb to his wounds at sea. Still, others warned her that it was in her own best psychological interest to rest a bit more herself after such a traumatic event. Suspecting that they simply wanted an opportunity to ask her more questions about their ordeal, Edith roundly refused them all and saw that they were aboard a steamer set for New York within the week, proper notice of her and Dr. McMichael's impending return already sent by telegram to the staff at her late father's home in the city.

It had indeed been the most terrifying voyage of Edith's life. With only a few staff members from the hospital assigned to help her bring Alan aboard the steamer by stretcher, for he was still heavily sedated for purposes of healing from his near mortal wounds, Edith felt very alone. At times she had feared that Alan would die as he battled fever by night and terrible pain from the wounds by day. Sometimes, it was all Edith could do to force down the bile that rose in her throat as she cleansed and redressed the deep red gashes on Alan's body. Yet, Edith knew she had to look at cuts to ensure that no infection began to fester, for if it did, the medics had said that Alan would surely die.

Though Alan was weak, Edith knew he could tell how the sight of his wounds bothered her. He would awaken from his drug-induced fog and encourage her while asking her questions about how the healing was progressing, telling her how to search for signs of corruption. She was grateful for whatever support he gave her, but the isolation she still felt only reminded Edith all the more boldly of how for the past several months since her father's death, she had always had someone looking after _her_.

Yes, Edith thought to herself, as she sat awake night after night, sleep never coming to her. Her inability, no, unwillingness to care for herself was how she had fallen victim to her wretched"husband" and his vile sister….

It seemed like it had been a lifetime ago that she had spoken of her desire to live a spinster's life, all on her own. What empty words those had been! Edith chastised herself, and thanked the heavens above that somehow Dr. Alan McMichael had had the foresight to come to her rescue. She had certainly needed a savior at just that moment or she would have met the same fate of all those other women who had met their ends at Crimson Peak… Now, she understood that Alan needed her though, so she needed to be strong.

By God's will, at last they arrived at New York, where her father's most capable servant, a Mr. Daniels had already arranged a medical transport to Bellevue for Alan. There, the doctors said that another week at sea probably would have definitely led to more serious damage either by fever, infection or any other number of unspeakable complications that could claim one in such a fragile state. Indeed, Edith had gotten him there just in time.

At her father's town home in the city, Edith was pleased to find that the servants had taken quickly to her advance notice to ready the house for her return. The furniture had recently been uncovered and proper cleaning had been undertaken. Firewood had been brought into the Great Room and Edith's old bedroom, and what it a comfort it was to find the fireplaces already alight, the flames dancing merrily over the logs. In fact, everything seemed almost the same as Edith had remembered since her childhood. And when she looked at the house itself, it was as if none of the terrible things that had transpired in the last few months had ever occurred. However, Edith knew she would find it almost impossible to get over the feeling that her father ought to be just around some corner in the house laughing, smoking his pipe, or offering some well-considered advice to the staff. Better that she pretend that he was away on an extended trip until she could get her mind around the whole of just what happened to her life.

Though she had clearly returned home from England without her husband and, perhaps even more damningly, in the company of another man –convalesced as he was— Edith determined to say nothing of what had happened across the water. Especially, what had happened to her relationship with Sir Thomas Sharpe. Their sham of a marriage (though she wished to keep that fact from everyone else for as long as possible) had obviously made the gossip pages several months ago due to what she now saw, in hindsight, were the extremely odd circumstances surrounding their most ill-begotten union; at the time, she had simply disregarded the public shock as a product of the kind of inanity that often seized a class of people with too much money and time and not enough to do with either of them. How foolish she had been.

Alas, the days passed, and Edith had to keep reminding herself that she simply could not continue beating herself up. Still, she found herself uneasy in ways she had never been before, and though she knew that she needed rest, sleep had remained elusive to her even after they had returned to the city. By night, she sat up reading for hours, frequently rereading entire pages of her books, so unable to focus on the material as she once had. By day, she took parts of her meals at odd times, often nodding off suddenly at inopportune times or finding her appetite just simply vanished all-together. She sat at her old writing desk in the sun-room occasionally, but this too proved particularly fruitless. Even though she had the strength to sit up and hold her favorite quill pen, she possessed no will to write a single thing. Several of the doctors who had seen her and Alan in England had recommended that she try writing down some of what had happened to them at Allerdale Hall, but the mere thought of that now turned her stomach. That and she could not bear the thought of having to explain to anyone what had happened, should they ever find her notes about it. No, she would not write it down. And so after spending several days "resting" in nigh oppressive boredom, Edith began making regular visits to Bellevue to sit and pass the days with Alan as he continued his convalescence.

Initially, she read to him while he rested for long periods of time, awake yet with his eyes shut, for the regular doses of morphine made him drowsy. Sometimes she brought the crossword puzzle from the weekend post and gave Alan the clues during times when he was more lucid. Other times they just talked, mainly about nothing at all. Edith mostly shared stories about her new acquaintance with running the household, and her interactions with the staff. She had not yet begun to call on friends or look into the status of her father's business affairs for she was still not prepared to draw attention to their return. It would only serve to highlight her break from her supposed husband, who was still fresh on the minds of probably too many of New York society's best known chatterers.

The time passed, sluggish though it often seemed to both Edith and Alan. As his doctors slowly decreased Alan's dosage of heavy medications, Edith found him awake and active when she arrived in his hospital room more and more often. Sometimes, Alan's mother would stop by too, and they would all sit and talk pleasantly, Mrs. McMichael having always liked Edith well. So with each passing day, Edith and Alan found themselves growing closer and close, just as they had been in the past but perhaps more intimate now.

Unable to sleep some nights now that he had been laid up for week and no longer under constant sedation, Alan would lay awake, tracing the cracks in the ceiling of his room with his eyes, thinking. The things that Edith must have endured in that horrible house… He had hardly had time to process it when he had arrived at Allerdale Hall and immediately realized that he had to spirit her away from that evil place as soon as possible. No one would ever be able to comprehend what the two of them, especially Edith, had experienced at Crimson Peak. That would be between only him and Edith forever.

And so Alan came to a conclusion: though he realized it might sound presumptuous, no one else would ever be able to understand and care for Edith after what had happened to her like he could. Actually, he loved her. He always had but had just not felt the proper encouragement from her in the past. And yet, now, despite how badly Edith had been burned by the last person to whom she had given her heart, here he was quite certain that somehow the two of them were drawing closer together by the day. So Dr. Alan McMichael decided that after he was fully recovered, he would make Edith Cushing his wife as he should have before. Granted he would do so at her pace and only at her consent, but he felt reasonably certain he could come to know both.

Alan's recovery had been progressing extremely well for almost three weeks, when one day he awoke and began his usual daily wait for Edith. That day he awoke feeling particularly well, and when the nurse brought him his breakfast of an egg, one slice of toast and a small bowl of porridge, he ate all of what he was given for the first time in weeks. He even enjoyed a small cup of tea for almost an hour after his breakfast tray had been cleared away, when he realized that he was getting bored and wished that he had the paper or something else to read. Edith was running late today. Seeing a nurse pass by, he requested a copy of the paper for himself. No matter, perhaps something at the house had detained her, he told himself. It was perhaps it selfish of him to think that she had nothing more important to do than visit him. For a while he read, and after some indeterminate time, he fell asleep.

Sometime later, he roused from his nap to find the sun shining through the window from a vastly different angle. How long had he been asleep? On the table beside his bed he found a tray with a lunch of lukewarm soup and a hunk of slightly crusty bread, telling that it had been placed there quite some time ago. Turning his head from side-to-side, he searched the room for Edith, but there was no sign of anyone having even been there. And surely she would have woken him to eat his lunch. It seemed that she would not visit today.

Somewhat crestfallen, Alan McMichael sighed and pulled his lunch tray into his lap. As he pulled off a chunk of the dry bread with his teeth, he realized how disappointed he was. It was not as if he was mad at Edith for not coming, but he had been doing so well today that he had been looking forward to showing her. Ah well, he supposed there was always tomorrow…

He was about halfway through his lunch when there came a light knock at the door.

 _Edith!_

"Dr. McMichael?" asked a muffled yet unfamiliar female voice. Alan's heart fell instantly. "May I come in?"

"Yes, you may. Come in," he repeated when she did not enter right away.

"Dr. McMichael, how are you feeling today?" the nurse, who he recognized only vaguely as one from his ward, asked a bit timidly as she came in. Gently, she closed the door and crossed the room to his bedside as he answered, "Well enough."

"That's good, Dr. McMichael. But unfortunately, I have some slightly troubling news for you. Miss Cushing had a small accident on her way into the hospital today," she said.

"What?" Alan asked, shocked, his eyes having grown wide with worry.

"Please don't worry too much. She seems fine now, but I'm afraid she took a little spill on the front steps of the building—"

"When?" Alan couldn't stop from interrupting.

"Around noon. Someone helped bring her inside and fortunately the on-call physician was available to examine her. Now, she has been resting for a little while in the out-patient ward," she explained.

"Did they find anything wrong? Do you know why she might have fallen?" he asked, trying to sound calm but aware that he was probably failing.

"No, I'm sorry I don't know much. One of the other nurses, who works between the different wards, recognized her as your friend and thought that we should let you know in case you were expecting her."

"Thank you, that's appreciated," Alan replied, barely restraining himself from asking further questions. Eventually, Edith would come to see him, and then he would ask her himself.

The nurse excused herself from the room. Shaken, Alan pushed the rest of his cold lunch aside. It hadn't really tasted that good to begin with and now he found that he had lost his appetite once again. What had happened to Edith?

It couldn't possibly still be the Sharpes' poison, could it? Maybe she had just been exhausted. She had told him that she couldn't sleep at night. Or perhaps she was seized by a flashback that took her by surprise? He supposed she could be sick too. And like this, for the next hour or so, a variety of fears mixed around Alan's mind, each one more plausible or plaguing than the last.

Finally, there was another knock at his door.

"Come in!" he practically shouted, his voice coming out louder than he had expected.

The door creaked noisly inward on its hinges, and a small hand appeared around the edge of the door. Wrapped in intricately woven light blue floral lace, those slender fingers allowed him to recognize their owner immediately, even before he saw her.

"Edith!" Alan called sitting bolt upright in his bed. He would've gotten up and gone to her immediately had he been able.

Her delicate features slid into Alan's view as she slipped into the room past the door, which she softly turned toward and closed. Hesitantly, she turned back to where Alan sat in bed. Her skin was pale but her cheeks were slightly flushed, and she looked well enough from across the room. Yet as she made no move to come closer, Alan felt as though he was leaning so far forward that if he leaned any further in her direction he might have tumbled right out on to the floor over the foot of the bed.

"Hello, Dr. McMichael," she greeted him softly, barely even looking up from the floor as she used his formal name.

"Edith?" he was dumbstruck at her sudden coldness. He wanted nothing but to ask her condition, but he felt as if the breath had been knocked out of him. Shaken, he leaned back on the pillows.

For a long moment, she stood in front of him, inspecting the floor, her hands pressed to the door, hidden behind her skirt, giving the impression that she was prepared to turn and go at any moment.

Still, he had to know what was happening. She didn't seem to want to stay, and she didn't seem to want to go. What was Edith Cushing doing?

"Edith, a nurse told me… What happened today on the steps?" Alan asked.

At last, Edith looked up into Dr. Alan McMichael's clear blue eyes. Even with his fine golden blonde hair slightly overgrown and all amess from the pillows and a light shadow of flaxen stubble appearing around the lower part of his face, he was still so very handsome. How had she not noticed it those several months before? And, oh, damn it all to hell! Now, it was too late… far, far too late…

"I knew it, I should never have come here," she whispered, looking away from his penetrating stare.

Alan McMichael was speechless, as she continued: "But they told me that they had told you what had happened, and I simply couldn't just never come to see you again. Selfishly, I could only think how you might worry for me, if I didn't say a thing-"

"Edith, I was only told that you tripped on the steps. I don't understand the reason for all this—"

"No," she cut him off sharply. Her small hands appeared, wrapped in two tiny fists, at the sides of her pastel, sky blue velvet skirt. The light blue netting that dipped down to her cheek bones from her beautiful hat decorated with blue dyed roses and baby's breath trembled, and Alan wondered as he thought he caught the glisten of a tear on her cheek in the dull winter light passing through the dusty hospital window.

"Alan we cannot be together. Ever. You'll simply have to understand," Edith told him, her voice echoing harshly around the high ceiling of the sterile looking room.

"What?" Alan asked, hurt sharpening his words. "Edith, you cannot be serious. What is this really about?"

"Alan, just trust me. We cannot." Her voice was trembling and suddenly, she turned to go, her skirt swaying dramatically as she grabbed the knob with both hands. "I must go!"

"Stop!" Alan shouted, as without another care he pushed himself out of bed with more force than he thought he could actually muster. However, after only one step, he stumbled badly. Though he mostly caught his fall with one arm on the side of the mattress, he cursed bitterly as his knee smacked painfully against the hard tile floor. In an instant, Edith was at his side.

"Alan!" she gasped in worried remonstration, as she helped shoulder him back into bed. They looked at each other for a long moment, her glossy brown eyes meeting his wide blue ones, when yet another light knock sounded at the door.

"Is everything all right, Dr. McMichael?" a little nurse with a thin a face asked as she peaked around the side of the door. She flushed as she noticed the intimate distance been the patient and his female visitor. "Someone heard shouting," she said with an embarrassed swallow.

"Yes, everything is fine, thank you," Alan replied forcing calm into his voice. "I am sorry. We'll be more quiet." And silently the girl excused herself with a nod and shut the door.

Alan turned his attention immediately back to Edith, who was perched on the edge of her usual chair by the side of his bed, tears now positively streaming down her face. He felt his fingers turning cold as she gripped his hands as hard as if they were made of steel. Wriggling his fingers, he managed to free one hand, in order to lift and tuck back her veil into her hat. He needed to see her face. What was she going through? What had happened earlier that day?

"Alan, I'm sorry," she ground out. "I did not want come here and say any of this to you. I don't want to leave you."

"And you don't have to," Alan replied more gently, using his free hand to wipe the hot tears from her red cheeks.

"Yes, I do," she countered again. "The most terrible thing has happened, Alan. I started to suspect it—no _fear it_ —some time ago, but I did not suspect that things could get any worse for me. But they have, _they have,_ " Edith lowered her head and cried into his sleeve.

"Edith, _my Edith_ , what could be any worse than what has already happened to us?" Alan asked, softly caressing her cheek. _It is alright, I am here for you,_ he thought.

Stiffening, Edith pulled back from Alan's hand.

"It is _him, Sir Thomas Sharpe_ ," she bit out the name as if it cut her tongue to do so. "I am with child, Alan!" she wept bitterly, and somehow he knew it before she even finished the saying the words.

"Edith," he said softly. But she would not look at him, and only kept her eyes clamped tightly shut as if to keep her tears from flowing out too fast.

"He is the only man I have ever known. It can be no one else's," she wept desperately. "I have no idea what to do…" she trailed off, on the verge of total despondence.

"Edith—" he tried again, but still she cut him off.

"No, Alan, I will not allow us _both to be ruined like this_ ," Edith gasped in pain, barely above a whisper.

"We will not be, but that is why we must be wed as soon as possible. That is… if will you accept it," Alan replied firmly, to which she could only look in startled amazement at him.

"But do you not understand what I am saying to you?" she asked, almost frantic that he could choose such a thing. "I am pregnant with another man's child. And _that man_ —"

"Edith, I do understand. And I love you," he answered, leaning over and taking both her trembling hands in his. "I love you and nothing is to change that. I will care for both you and this child," he said firmly.

Still, Edith looked stunned. Breaking his gaze, she glanced about wildly, as if by doing so she might yet still catch a glimpse of some future she previously was not aware existed. "But how can we possibly be happy like this?" she questioned and then suddenly fixed him with a half-mad expression. "Perhaps, we can rid of it – surely, Alan, as a doctor, you must know _someone_ who can do it!" Edith implored under her breath.

Without thinking, Alan drew back a bit from her. "No, and even if I did, that is the last thing we should do. Not mention the danger to you…"

"But what if, what if _he_ or, worse yet, _she_ comes looking for it? Out of hatred or for whatever other reason?"

"But why?" Alan replied evenly. "Why would they come thousands of miles to seek vengeance on an innocent child, blood of their blood, flesh of their flesh? No, I cannot believe that Sir Thomas Sharpe or even his maniacal sister would do such thing. However, if we choose continue down the Sharpes' path of violence and bloodshed by getting rid of it, then perhaps, I'm afraid of what might happen."

"Alan," Edith breathed, speechless at how quickly and decidedly he had thought this out. "But how can _I_ ever love such a child?" she asked at last speaking what was perhaps her greatest fear.

"I don't know," Alan answered her softly before he took her chin once again in his warm hand. "But I know that I love you, and together we will get through this."

With a shaky nod, Edith finally agreed, and leaning together with him, she allowed Alan to kiss her lips ever so gently.

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 **Note: This may or may not be a one-shot, depending... though I can say have some ideas for future chapters. For those of you reading my Inuyasha fic _Dying to Live,_ I have not forgotten you! However after seeing _Crimson Peak_ earlier this week and getting in the spirit of the Halloween season, I think I simply just could not resist writing this :P**


	2. The Departure

_**His Crimson Rose**_

Disclaimer: I do not own Crimson Peak nor any of Guillermo del Toro's wonderful characters. However, I do claim all the original ideas shared within this fic. That said: _Enjoy!_

:::

 **Synopsis: Though lovely, every rose has its thorns. Alan and Edith return to America in hopes of a fresh start, while Allerdale Hall sits (mostly) vacant for the first time in decades with only the wind rushing through its ramshackle walls. Even for ghosts, there is life-both bitter and sweet-after Crimson Peak.**

:::

Through the broken front door; up the dust-blanketed grand stairwell; down the drafty upstairs hallways with their peeling, faded wallpaper; at the end of one, dreary, long corridor through a bedroom door covered in cracked paint and omnipresent spackles of red clay, Sir Thomas Sharpe perched vulture-like atop a rotting rosewood dresser.

Given the dark stain that stretched across the ceiling, which sloped where the roof angled down, Sharpe presumed that melting snow had weaseled its way in through some invisible crack in the wall. More than just the finish on the dresser had suffered for the leak. Depressed by the ever-present dinge and dank that surrounded him, Sharpe sighed heavily.

Now, you might ask yourself why a titled man such as Sir Thomas Sharpe would ever choose this particular piece of furniture, this dilapidated dresser in this dilapidated house, on which to sit? Moreover, why would such a one sit atop a dresser at all?

Well, Sir Thomas Sharpe, for one could not technically answer this question if he tried, for he could not actually sit down. For in fact he was dead, and upon dying he had learned that the dead, specifically ghosts, did not sit.

Rather now, he hovered. So it was that he was hovering, lost in thought, when a certain stern voice, further accentuated by a strong continental lilt, disturbed his potentially infinite, ghostly mediation.

"Can you make her _stop?_ "

Sir Thomas Sharpe focused his eternally sad, hollow gaze on the spot where his second-to-last wife, Enola, had materialized. Like a wave breaking on the tide, suddenly the cacophonous clang of un-tuned piano keys collided with the late baronet's eardrums (that is, if sound waves did in fact penetrate the ectoplasm of a ghost's inner ear at all; uncertain, Sharpe mentally filed this question away for later contemplation…)

 _Damn it,_ he cursed a particularly nerve-shattering F-note. And he had so nearly successfully drowned out his horrible sister's maniacal playing.

"And what makes you think I can do _that_?" he asked, his voice soft with its noble accent perfectly, quizzically aloof.

"You certainly— _ah, come si dice?—had a way with her when you were alive_ ," Enola replied pointedly.

 _Ouch._ Thoughts of his unique relationship with Lucille only stung Thomas all the more. And his equally dead wife only knew it too well.

"And let me ask, do you recall the identity of my murderer?" he asked sardonically.

Clearly, seeing that she was getting nowhere with her waste of an ex-spouse, Enola turned her nose up in the air with an icy " _hmph_ " before disappearing through the ancient, dirt-caked floor. In a dark humor, Sharpe wondered how even a ghost could fit through the cracks between the wood with so much filth around, though he knew very well that was probably not how it worked.

Then, again, Sharpe could not say that he really knew how these "things" worked at all. Listening to Lucille terrorize her piano keyboard and, by extension, the rest of their ramshackle abode, Sir Thomas Sharpe allowed himself to drift upward into the attic.

Arriving in the middle of the room, mid-torso into his old worktable, he looked around at his once beloved workshop. His many trinkets and small inventions now slept beneath a thick, dull layer of dust. Ah, how he wished to wipe the dirt away, pick up his creations, turn them in his hands. Alas, it seemed _he_ would never do so again, for since he had died and awoken on the "Other Side", so to speak, Sir Thomas Sharpe had found himself entirely unable to manipulate even a single object.

 _How deeply unfair,_ he thought, feeling especially mopey at the moment. Honestly poltergeist-like, his sister had been able to bang away at her piano almost non-stop from the moment she had met her grisly fate. She had even been able to torture every other soul in the house with whatever make-shift weapons she so chose, wildly flinging about everything from kitchen cutlery to heavy chandelier chains. Yet, _he_ was allowed no solace in being able to move the items that were most dear to him.

Really, what good was the life of an inventor such as himself if he could not actually construct the flights of his scientific fancy, or at the very least, share his ideas with others?

Feeling utterly bored and ineffectual for the millionth time since his demise, Sir Thomas Sharpe floated over to the window. He tried to imagine the feel of the ambient chill emanating off the smudged glass, but he found himself already forgetting the memory of such sensations…

His mind wandered: how long had it been since Edith had escaped from Crimson Peak? Already a few months, he realized as he noticed patches in the red-muddled snow where it had begun to melt in the spring thaw. Were those even a few blades of witch grass coming up beside the stone wall at the end of the drive?

Just barely audible over the strains of the piano now paired with his sister's wailing song (if it could be called that), he believed he heard Papillion's barking below. With nothing else to do, Sharpe apathetically let himself be drawn through the thick wall of the manor down into the yard below.

As he settled a few centimeters above the frozen, red slop that covered the earth, Papillion rushed across the yard toward him. Smirking, the baronet thought of how the little mutt would have drown in the red mud had he not been already dead too. Somewhat sickly, Sharpe then deduced that Lucille had done the small beast a favor.

 _I suppose I always did enjoy the macabre,_ he noted, hoping humor would ease some of the pain, as he guiltily recalled standing by while his sister snapped the silly creature's neck.

"Sorry, dog: If I do not laugh, I shall certainly cry," Sharpe told Papillion, as the toy spaniel danced around his legs, it's butterfly wing-like ears all aflutter. Clearly, the dog too was happy for some company in this dreary Purgatory that they all seemed to share.

Before he knew it, Sharpe soon found himself following the dog to the edge of the property. Now, only several feet away, he saw clearly that a small cluster of slightly green weeds had indeed taken root beside the wall. Even in the most inhospitable reaches of the earth, he supposed, something must grow. He was inspecting the tenacious weeds when suddenly, and with no apparent cause, Papillion leapt up in Sharpe's face, yapping loudly.

"GAH! Dog, what in Hell's name are you doing?" Sharpe exclaimed bitterly, his arm still raised to his face in shock. However, the little dog had already bounded away, easily passing through the heavy, black iron bars of the chained and locked gate. Unthinkingly, he followed the dog immediately, but on the other side of the gate, he saw mischievous canine spirit nowhere.

"Where the devil-?" he scratched his head, unable to understand how the mutt had simply vanished. It was then that Sharpe turned and discovered the partially obstructed view of Allerdale Hall through the thick, twisted rungs of the wrought-iron gate.

Disoriented momentarily, Sharpe soon settled upon the realization that he had wound up outside the property. He had not even gone beyond the manor walls for months! Now, he couldn't help but marvel at how malevolent the place looked from outside at such a distance. If Allerdale Hall had looked even a fraction as horrible as it did now when he brought Edith home from America, he wondered how she could have agreed to stay with him and Lucille at all.

 _Edith._ Turning away from the dilapidated shack to which he had dedicated his entire life, he imagined how for the last time she must traveled this road that stretched into town, only too relieved to still be in possession of her life as she left Crimson Peak behind once and for all.

 _To leave Crimson Peak behind once and for all._ The words echoed in Sharpe's mind. He had considered doing so several times over the years that he and Lucile traveled back and forth in search of rich heiresses to swindle and kill; however, it was Lucille who always ensured that they returned to the family home. So now, standing (well, technically hovering over) the red slush outside the manor's gate, it occurred to Sir Thomas Sharpe that for the first time ever, he had successfully left Allerdale Hall with no real compulsion to return anytime soon.

"Well, if the dog can do it, so can I," he said to no one in particular and began a determined drift down the lane into town, away from Allerdale Hall and Crimson Peak.

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 **Note: Finally had time for another installment! Most likely this fic will be woven from more-or-less a collection of scenes I have imagined unfolding after the events of the film. Hope you enjoy! Don't forget to read and review. Follows and favorites are really great, but reviews, even short ones are _super_ appreciated! Thanks to those of you who already have left reviews - they really provided the encouragement for me to come back and write another chapter! Hugs - Origamikungfu.**


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